


Before I Sleep

by nichristi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Chariot Racing - Freeform, Indentured Servitude, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Minor Character Death, Slavery, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:09:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8384935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nichristi/pseuds/nichristi
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester are Legacies of the House of Winchester and Princes of the Line of Ancient Kings. Despite the titles, they are simple men looking to make a decent life in their homeland- even through its occupation of the Empire, a faraway but immensely powerful group of lands that has spent the better part of two centuries conquering the known world. They get by and manage to keep their household intact with minimal trouble from the Empire’s puppet rulers. Until one day, the Empire asks for more than the Winchesters are willing to give. To make an example for the rest of the people, The Winchesters are arrested and made to disappear. The family home is burned and the family business is dismantled. Dean is enslaved in the Empire’s Galley Ships and Sam- well, no one knows what happened to Sammy. It’s on the Galleys that Dean meets Castiel, Senator in the Empire’s government. He’s everything that Dean has come to despise about the ruling Superpower- conceited, ruthless, and unable to think for himself. When a devastating battle at sea leaves them both stranded on a piece of driftwood, Dean and Castiel learn there is more to the both of them than their allegiances.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the DCBB! Art is by the wonderful YTyuzhihan on Tumblr. 
> 
> Guys, there are some intense themes in this fic, including depictions of Dean being sold into slavery by the government, Sam spending a prolonged amount of time in prison, and Castiel discussing the suicide of a family member. There are more awful things that happen to all of Team Free Will, so please consult and heed the warnings. Also, there's a discussion of an arranged marriage toward the beginning of the story- The discussion is intended to be purely for the sake of tradition and long-held legal practices within the culture, not because Dean or Jess' father would ever think that either of them have any say in Sam and Jess' happiness. It's the equivalent of two people filling out a piece of paper and having it notarized; I'm not saying it's completely kosher, just that it's not meant as malevolent. 
> 
> All that being said, this is intended to be an epic journey and not a Dark!Fic. There is a happy ending and I hope you all enjoy it. If I missed anything in the tags please let me know!
> 
> Title is taken from the Song "Before I Sleep" by Joy Williams- who based the song off the well known poem. Please check her out, she's amazing.

"I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.”

Dean’s entire body screamed in agony. His heart thudded to the beat of the Oar Master’s drum. The guard, Alistair, strolled up and down the aisle of galley slaves, whip wound loosely in one hand. He was just waiting for an excuse to use it, not that he needed one. There was a time when Dean would’ve protested: deliberately provoked Alistair to draw his attention away from the new slaves, but those days were far behind him. There were too many scars on his back. It would only make more beatings for everyone involved. Besides, he needed to survive. He had to get back home, find Sammy.  _ Get back home, find Sammy. Get back home, find Sammy. _ The phrase had become a mantra. The same five words echoed through his mind, beaten into a constant rhythm by the Oar Master’s drum after five years of servitude. 

 

Alistair’s whip cracked not two inches from his ear. Dean didn’t flinch. To react was to show weakness. To show weakness was to invite more pain. He focused on the beat.  _ Get back home, find Sammy. _ He heard the sound of the guard’s steps behind him, getting closer. Smalled the almost sulfuric odor of Alistair’s tunic- a product of spending too much time alternating between the fiery catapults and the slaves.  _ Get back home, find Sammy.  _ He pulled the oar to his chest and pushed it forward, well aware that, should Alistair attack him, he would not be able to defend himself.  _ Get back home, find Sammy. _ The attack never came. Dean dared not look back to see what had become of him. Finally, the Oar Master called a halt. As one, the oars were shipped and locked into place. The rowers slumped across them, exhausted. 

 

_ Get back home, find Sammy.  _ Dean could still feel his body moving in the repetitive pattern of the oars even as he slipped into the one place where he was still free- his dreams.  _ Get back home, find Sammy.  _

* * *

The rolling gait of Dean’s horse beneath him was as natural to him as walking. He kept a sure seat on Impala’s bare back and guided her effortlessly up the cedar lined roads outside of Lawrence. A hot breeze whipped his clothes around him and he smiled in spite of himself. He entered the city walls and brought Impala down to a trot, her sleek black neck lathered in sweat. Bobby’d have his ass for running her so hard on a day like this. He slowed her to a walk and slipped into the Winchester family stable by the back way, suddenly hoping nobody had seen him. He wanted to cool his horse down in peace without seven thousand questions about where in Blazes he’d been that day. He looped Impala’s lead in the aisle and grabbed a set of brushes. The stable smelled of horse and dust and hay and was his favorite thinking place since before he could remember. When his parents had a nasty row, he’d come out here and dote on his baby. Now that he was the master of the house, he still came out here to think, but not about his parents. Now it was about tributes and bond servants and his goddamned little brother and-

“Dean Winchester! Where have you been?!” Echoed a voice from the other end of the stable. Uh-oh. That was Ellen. She was so much scarier than Bobby.

“Working, Ellen!” He shouted back. 

“My ass! Workin’ on your tan with that Braeden girl, no doubt!” A raft of sodden straw flew out of one of the stalls. Dean hadn’t seen Lisa in a week, not that Ellen believed him. He sighed and rubbed a soft cloth over Impala’s neck. 

She poked her head into the aisle and frowned, “You shouldn’t go out bareback like that, what if someone steals her?” 

Dean laughed. “Who, outside of this household, could get close enough to try? Besides, she’s smoother without a saddle and bridle. Can’t tame my baby.” 

“Uh-huh.” She didn't sound convinced.

Impala nickered in agreement. Dean put her in her stall and went to the other end of the barn. He leaned against the stall door and watched Ellen spread clean fill in the stall.

“I really was working, you know,” He remarked. Ellen leaned on her pitchfork and turned her sharp eyes on him. She was like a second mother to him. Even before their parents died, Ellen and Bobby had raised Dean and his little brother. They’d been bond servants at the time, but to Sam and Dean they were “Uncle Bobby and “Auntie Ellen”. 

“You gotta watch yourself, Dean. We can’t have anymore bastard kids mucking up the family line. No disrespect to your father, may he rest in peace.” 

“Ellen…” 

“I know, Adam has no claim on your title, but my point stands, boy.” 

“Lisa and I broke it off,” Dean rushed. Ellen looked up sharply. 

“Oh, Dean, I’m sorry.” She really was too. Everyone liked Lisa. She was sweet and funny and strong, gorgeous and smart and all the things a lady should and shouldn’t be all at the same time. Dean knew Sam wanted him to marry her. 

“It was mutual,” He lied. “I have things to focus on here, as you keep pointing out, and she-” 

She wanted to see the world. He didn’t fit into that plan. “Well, we want different things.” 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah.” He was, too. He’d convinced himself he loved her, but now that they were done, he didn’t really feel any different. “Anyway,” he said, pulling a piece of rolled parchment from his tunic, “The Emperor’s sending a new Governor. He wants the support of the noble families.” 

“Yours especially, I’ll bet.” 

“We’re of the line of the Old Kings. Of course he does.” 

“Will you support him?” 

“The Empire owns Lawrence, Ellen. We follow their laws, pay their taxes. Besides, I’ve got Sam to think about. You know he wants to marry Jess? Her dad’s asking me tonight-” 

“Dean-” 

“I don’t have a choice, Ellen!” Dean snapped. He really didn’t. The Empire wasn’t exactly popular, and for good reason. A little backwater like Larwence didn’t warrant all the rights their Empirical taxes paid for. Sure, they got long, straight cobbled roads that led straight to the Holy Capitol itself and the privilege of being called a Citizen of the Empire: but what good was that when the people had to pay more homage to the Emperor himself than they paid to their own Gods? When they couldn’t feed themselves after all the "holy rites" were observed? What good did the Empire do but strangle Dean’s people and execute them for their trouble? What good did they do when the Governors asked the High Families for tribute and support and turned them against the people- for what? For money. For horses and livestock and food and livelihoods and- 

“You always have a choice,” Ellen said softly, but there was steel in her voice. She knew what it was to lose everything, and she wasn’t afraid to do it again. Dean sighed and pushed off the lintel of the stall door. “But is it worth my life? Sam’s? And Jess and her father? What about you and Bobby? What about Jo?” 

“Why don’t you let us decide that for ourselves?” Dean heaved a shaky sigh and turned to go. “Dean?” Dean paused. “We’d choose freedom every time.” 

* * *

Dean touched the lintel of the door and kissed his fingers as he entered. It was an old custom, burned into his mind since he was born. There was a clatter from the kitchen followed by giggling. Sam must be “helping” Jess cook dinner. Technically, she and her father were their servants. Like Bobby and Ellen, the Moore family had been indebted to the Winchesters for generations, not that Sam and Dean treated them like it. In fact, Dean planned on freeing them from their unjust debt as a wedding gift. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Sam. He wanted to see their faces. More giggling emanated from the kitchen as Dean passed. He smiled and passed through the main hall into the library. It smelled musty and old, like liquor and leather and parchment and ink. He passed behind a large shelf, overflowing with scrolls, and called, “Bobby?”

“Right here, son,” Bobby called back. He was all but hidden behind his desk, piled high with scrolls, flasks, bottles of liquor, and what seemed like thousands of candles. 

The caretaker for the Winchester estate since well before Dean was born, Bobby had been a servant to Dean’s father before he’d been freed at the time of old John’s death. He elected to stay on as an employee of the younger Winchesters since, as he put it, “Someone has to make sure you idjits don’t burn it to the ground.” Sam and Dean payed him and Ellen and Jo generously. They had an arrangement. The Harvelle- Singers didn’t complain about how much they were paid, and the Winchesters didn’t make a big deal out of freeing them in the first place. Gods knew what they did with the money, since they could’ve moved out and bought their own estate five times over by now, but here they stayed, in their little house at the back of the property, taking care of Sam and Dean as if they were their own.

Dean handed Bobby the scroll he’d received in town today, reiterating what he’d told Ellen in the barn. “Should I give them my support?” Bobby looked over the scroll, brows drawing together as he read the fine print. “You’d lose your soul, Dean.”

“We’d lose everything else if I don’t, though. Not just me, Bobby. Sammy, you and Ellen, Jo, Jess, everyone we know. We’d be out on our asses faster than we could blink.” 

“It’s not that bad, Dean.”

“Really? I’m not seeing another option. They own us, Bobby.” 

“Dean.” 

“What?” 

“Legally, they can’t do what you’re suggesting.” 

“Legally? They ARE the law, Bobby! Look what they did to the Campbells.” 

“The Campbells supported the Empire.” 

“Not at first.” 

“No. But they didn’t put up much of a fight, did they? Anyway, they were ruined even after supporting them. If they want to ruin us they will and damn the laws. But not without consequences. You are a citizen of the Empire, Dean. You have rights. Sometimes, you have to assert them.” 

Dean heaved another sigh. “Even if it means losing everything?”

“Maybe everything isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” 

“You’re right and you know it.”  

“Always.” 

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Dean’s mouth. “Thanks, Bobby.” 

“The decision is yours, Dean. But if I were you, I’d tell the Empire to stick it.” 

“You know that’s almost exactly what Ellen said?” 

“At least someone has some sense around here.” 

Dean felt much lighter as he walked out of the library. He went upstairs to his room and changed out of his riding gear, washed his hands and feet, and pulled on a clean set of robes. Back downstairs in the main hall, Dean reclined in his favorite chair and pored over the Empire scroll one last time. 

“My Lord?” 

Dean looked up to see Hiram Moore, Jess’ father, standing in the entryway. A smile broke across his face and he exclaimed,  “Hiram! Come in! I was expecting you. What can I do for you?” He set the scroll aside as the servant scuttled forward, nervously wringing his hands. 

“Well, sir, you know my Jess and the Younger Master Winchester have become close,” He paused, an unsure look on his face. This sort of thing just wasn’t done in other families. 

“I had noticed, now that you mention it,” Dean laughed. 

“As the holder of our family’s good name, I was wondering sir, might I ask that my Daughter be given in marriage?” Hiram dropped into the obviously rehearsed formal speech of marriage request. His hands shook as if, after all these years, he didn’t know he had the right to ask anything of Dean. 

Dean spoke his bit of the ancient ritual with a smile on his face and he meant every word. “I would gladly grant that your daughter be given in marriage. Who is he that he be found worthy of her hand?” 

“Samuel of the House Winchester, My Lord.” 

“And Jessica consents to this betrothal with all her heart and will be happy with this Samuel?” 

“Aye, My Lord.” 

“Fetch her, that she may testify to this fact in person.” 

Hiram bowed and gestured at the door. Jess swept into the room, her blue working dress spattered with flour, green eyes lit up and nervous.

“Jessica of the house Moore, you and your family have been in the service of my house for generations. It is my understanding that you wish to marry. Is this so?” 

“It is, my lord.” 

“And you wish to join yourself to my brother.” 

“Aye.” 

“By what right and inheritance do you make this request?” 

That brought them up short. The color drained from Old Man Hiram’s face. They didn’t have a dowry and Dean knew it. Not that he needed it or wanted one, but it was a formal request and a necessary part of the custom according to the law of his people. Jess swallowed and squared her shoulders, and said clearly, “I have no right or inheritance to make this request. None but the friendship and love between our two families since the time of your father.” She bowed and waited. 

Dean regarded her seriously. “As you are of an indentured status, Jessica, I cannot approve your request to marry my brother.” The color drained from both of their faces and there was a shout of “Dean!” from Sam waiting in the hall. He held up his hand. “However, In light of your family’s lengthy service to mine and the longstanding love and friendship between them, I, Dean Winchester, son of John, Son of Henry, of the line of Winchester stretching back to the dawn of time, grant you and your father freedom from my service. You may remain under my employment with the salary of fifteen silver pieces per week,effective immediately.” Their jaws dropped. Such a salary was fit for one of the Council. “Do you accept?”

Hiram and Jess’ faces both broke into wide smiles. “As you wish my lord,” Hiram said. 

“Then as a free woman, Jessica of the House of Moore, I grant you permission to marry Sammy.” Sam burst into the room at that point, laughing and swinging Jess into his arms. “It’s about damn time, too,” Dean said, rising. The Empirical scroll laid forgotten on the seat of the chair. Now was not the time to think about taxes and government oppression. There were more important things at hand. 

The rest of the household came into the room at that point, Bobby with a bottle of wine, and Ellen with a plate of pastries (cooked by Jess, no doubt). The party lasted well into the night. When Dean finally collapsed into bed, the sun was rising.

* * *

A gust of foul breath against Dean’s ear brought him back into awareness. He clutched at the rapidly dissipating dream, but it was like all the others. Sweet memory was eclipsed by Alistair’s stench as he bent further over Dean, whispering and spitting in his ear. “What is it you did to land here eh, Your Highness? Shag someone you shouldn’t’ve? Kill someone? Princes don’t just end up in the Galleys, boy. Even from little backwaters like yours. Who’s Sammy, Slug? Answer me, Forty One.” Alistair grabbed a handful of Dean’s hair and yanked his head back to meet his eyes. Dean met his eyes. He didn’t flinch, didn’t change his breathing, even as his stomach did a dangerous swoop at the mention of Sam’s name. He must’ve said it in his sleep. Good God, Sam’s name was all he had left- and he’d given it up. Alistair’s whip unwound, the tether slapping quietly against the floor planks. He raised his arm. 

“Alistair!” 

Every eye in the hold flew to the Oar Master’s seat. Rather, the man behind the Oar Master’s seat. He was dressed in a fine tunic of white linen. The short, red cape at his shoulders spoke of his rank- Senator. His eyes bored into the scene in front of him as if, by staring hard enough, he could incinerate the guard. 

“Unhand him,” the newcomer growled. Even Dean couldn’t keep a look of shock off his face. No one- definitely not Senators- defended galley slaves. What were they but filthy criminals? 

“Sir-” Alistair protested indignantly.

The Senator held up his hand for silence. Alistair’s mouth slapped shut. “You are relieved.” 

Alistair tightened his grip on Dean’s head even more. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rip away from his scalp. Alistair met the Senator’s gaze in a silent battle of wills and all Dean could do was refuse to react. Finally, Alistair succumbed to the newcomer and dropped his gaze. Then with one final act of defiance, ripped his hand away from Dean’s head. Dean grunted and slumped forward. He felt blood run down the back of his head. He heard the crack of a whip and the sharp thwack! of a spear. He dropped his head forward as his vision swam with unbidden tears he didn’t know he could still produce and mingled with blood and sweat and vomit. Then someone had grabbed his shoulders and his feet were being unchained and the world took one more violent spin. He caught sight of a pair of piercing blue eyes as the world spun- and the world went black.

* * *

Dean was jarred into wakefulness by someone pounding on his door in time to the pounding in his head. He groaned and pulled his blanket over his head. Whoever it was could wait. “Dean!” someone shouted. He rolled over- and fell out of bed, smacking his head on the way down. “Oof.” Well, that woke him up. He scrambled upright and wobbled his way to the door like a newborn yearling. He reached for the handle and missed. Was he still drunk? Maybe. Then the door whacked him in the face and knocked him back on his ass. He clutched his head and tried to breathe through his nose. In. Out. In. Out. He chanced opening one eye- and there he was. The clumsy-ass moose himself, his puppy eyes all worried and searching. He clenched his eyes shut again and groaned, “Dammit, Sam!” 

“Sorry.”

Dean rocked into a sitting position and sucked the air hard through his teeth. “This better be fucking important,” he gritted out. Sam put his hand on Dean’s shoulder and he braced himself against it as he climbed to his feet. “Come on, Jess made breakfast.” Sam started for the door. Dean took another deep breath. 

“You woke me up for fucking breakfast? You gave me two goddamn concussions for fucking Breakfast?!” He winced at the volume of his own voice. Sam grinned down at him and laughed. 

“Ha! Well when you put it that way... No. But you’ll want to eat something before you go out. Bobby has a chariot he wants you to test drive before the race next week.”

Just the thought of driving his horses around in circles at a breakneck pace in one of Bobby’s works in progress made Dean’s head spin and his stomach lurch. “You fucking bitch.” 

“Yeah, you’re a ray of sunshine, Jerk.” 

“I’m not even racing a team next week. They’re your gaddamn horses, work them yourself.” 

“Well someone had to go and free my fiance last night so you get the honors.” 

“Children!” came Jess’ all too cheerful voice. Sam dumped Dean into one of the low chairs at the prep table in the kitchen and kissed his brand new fiancee on the cheek. Dean rested his still throbbing forehead on the cool slab of wood and groaned, “You could’a let me sleep, y’know.” 

“Work waits for no man, sweetie,” came Ellen’s voice as she entered the room with an armful of firewood. Dean winced when she dropped it by the hearth. 

“Ugggh…” He groaned again. He let the morning chatter wash over him as he tried to get his stomach under control. 

A plate of pastries was plonked down in front of him, sending Dean flying out of his chair and into another round of wincing, groaning and head-clutching. “Screw all of you…” He couldn’t even look at the plate of good things on the table without wanting to lurch for the slop bucket in the corner. A cup of water was plopped in front of him and, even though it tasted like the nasty that was his mouth, he downed the whole cup. Sam loomed next to him as the door slammed behind him. A throat cleared.“If you’re done with your day off, The working class would like to get some work done. This week, if you don’t mind.” 

“I wasn’t kidding when I said Bobby wanted you to test that chariot,” Sam whispered in his ear.

Dean stiffened and pasted a smile on. “Sure thing, Bobby. On my way.” Bobby harrumphed and walked out the door. Dean, still not hungry, but needing something solid in his stomach, snatched a pastry from the table and darted out the door after Bobby.

* * *

Bobby’s rusty chariot whipped around the far corner of the small track at the back of the property. The hooves pounded into the dirt, kicking it up into the driver’s face and caking Dean as they passed him. He shielded his pastry in his robes and pulled the collar up over his nose. He joined Bobby under a large olive tree at the far end of the track.

“Gotta tighten them up on the outside turn.” 

“Jo’s got ‘em as tight as possible. I think it’s the axle.” 

“Wrong size?” 

“Nope. It’s a bit off balance. It’s pretty solid though. Empire parts.” 

“Hmm,” Dean said. The inside right horse, a bright bay with a mean streak named Lucifer, tossed his head and bit at his outer neighbor, a short flaxen chestnut. Named Gabriel. The outside horse bucked and Jo fought to keep them in line. 

“Why’d you put him on the inside?” He always ran Lucifer on the outside.

“Huh? Jo hitched ‘em up, ask her.” 

“If she lives.” As if on cue, the bay whinnied, high and angry and tossed his head again. Jo fumbled the reins. Her whip went flying. She gripped one rein tightly, hauling the horses around in a circle and gripping the chariot’s rim hard. 

“Dammit, Jo!” Dean dropped his pastry completely and sprinted down the track, Bobby fast on his heels. The chariot spun in wild circles. It was barely upright. Dean dodged eight wild front hooves and grabbed for the harnesses- only to jump back to miss the yoke. 

“Dean!” Jo shouted.

“Jo! Let go of the rein!” 

“But-”

“God Dammit, Jo, just do it!” 

Jo shook her head. “The horses!” 

Dean jumped back again. Bobby ran up beside him. “The horses will be fine! Let go of the rein and jump!” 

Jo took a visibly rattled breath and gripped the front rim with both hands. The horses straightened out a bit and faced back down the straight of the track. The chariot swerved wildly and slowed for just a second. Jo jumped out the back of the chariot and rolled. Dean sprinted after them. The horses, being free and still completely angry, started back into a gallop. Dean jumped for the chariot and landed hard on his knees. His forehead bounced against the front rail. He felt a trickle of blood run down his nose and he swiped it away. One of the loose reins lashed against his cheek and he scrambled to his feet. The hooves pounded hard in his ears. The dust stung his eyes. There was no way he was going to catch the reins whipping behind them. 

“Whoa!” He bellowed, knowing it was in vain. The horses were wild with anger and fear. No amount of shouting would get them under control. They swerved right. The olive tree loomed in front of them and beyond that, the main pasture fence. Dean gripped the rim hard and braced himself. The chariot bounced over the roots of the tree. The rigid axle in front of him made a sickening crack. He felt the Chariot disconnect from the yoke and fall forward. He jumped before it could start flipping end over end and landed on the yoke. He flailed and found Lucifer's harness straps. He clambered onto his back and hauled on his harness. Lucifer fought him, but knew his master and eventually, with much bucking and high whinnying, he slowed to a lope, and finally a trot, bringing the rest of the team down with him.

Bobby and Jo were on them then. Each took an end and guided the whole team into a paddock. One by one, each horse was unharnessed and led into the barn to cool off until only Dean and Lucifer remained. Dean hopped off his back and unharnessed him himself. Bobby took him from Dean’s hands and led him away, sidestepping and tossing his head as he went.

Dean bent over and breathed deeply. 

“Dean!” Jo leaned on the fence, breathing heavily. “Dean, I’m sorry, but you weren’t-” 

“Dammit Jo!” Dean straightened, suddenly angry. “You could’ve gotten us all killed! What in Blazes were you thinking?” 

Jo paled. Her face hardened, “You weren’t here! How was I supposed to know?”

“I was on my way! You’re a good driver Jo, but you don’t know those horses!” 

“They’re a team! They’ve run together since they were born!” 

“You put them on the wrong sides.” 

“What?” 

“You put them on the wrong sides! Lucifer is an instigator, but he’s the fastest. He needs to be on the outside. The chestnuts are twins and the most even tempered. They go in the middle. The black is the anchor. Michael’s the slowest, but the most responsive.” 

“Why didn’t Bobby tell me?” 

“Bobby builds the chariots, he doesn’t train the horses!” 

“Dammit, Dean!”

“Dammit, Jo!”

“Both of you! That’s enough!” Bobby shouted. “Jo, Dean’s right. You gotta know those horses better than you know yourself.” Jo gaped at him, furious. Dean guffawed and smiled triumphantly. Bobby turned his gaze on Dean. “If you’re not gonna be out here every time we run a new team, you need to train someone else up just as good as your Daddy trained you. Dean dropped his head, cheeks red. “Sorry, Bobby.” 

“Don’t you sorry me, boy. Jo knows the chariots as well as I do and drives as good as Sam, but  _ you _ gotta teach her the horses.” He bent to pick up the harnesses. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a chariot to fix.”  He tossed them over his shoulder and sauntered behind his house, muttering about “Damn kids and their stupid ...” all the way leaving Dean and Jo looking sheepish in his wake. They stood there awkwardly for a while, staring at the dirt between them. Finally, Jo bent to pick up the yoke and Dean went for the axle. They put it in what the Winchester/Singer/Harvelle/Moore family called “the labyrinth”. It was Bobby’s ever growing mass of broken chariots, all piled on top of each other and around the little house- so high that there were intricate mazes and tunnels to even get to the Harvelle-Singer house. Sam and Dean had many blissful childhood memories of running those paths, playing in the chariots, hiding from any and all responsibility. Look at them now. 

Dean glanced at Jo. She still looked shaken up from that wild ride. She was talented, no question about it, but she was young and inexperienced. Well, Dean thought, Time for some experience with the other end of the chariot. “Come on.” He clapped a hand on her shoulder and led the way to the barn.

Dean tossed her a brush and a damp cloth and gestured to the bay’s stall. “Go rub down Lucifer.”

Jo caught both in one hand and stared at him like he’s lost it. 

“He doesn’t-”

“What? Deserve it? Jo, do you hear yourself? We don’t punish our horses for our mistakes. If he doesn’t get rubbed down, he’ll be uncomfortable. He could catch a chill, get sick. Then we’d be down a horse in our second fastest team. He doesn’t know he did anything wrong. All he knows is that the way he was hitched up didn’t feel right. He responded the only way he knows how. Go rub him down. You’ll earn his respect.”

Jo huffed and entered his stall. Dean grabbed another set of brushes and started on the twins. They were all lathered up and salty from their ordeal, but considerably calmer. He kept an ear out for any signs of trouble from Lucifer’s stall as he worked. Aside from a couple snorts and stamps, it was quiet. Dean finished up the twins and moved on to Michael, Lucifer’s older brother and mortal enemy, except it seemed, when they were hitched up on opposite side of a chariot team. He murmured quietly to the big black as he finished him up and exited the stall. Lucifer’s stall was still suspiciously quiet. He poked his head in and saw Jo rubbing the white star on his forehead and staring into his warm golden eyes. He smiled. Jo, it seemed, had a knack. 

They were outside not thirty minutes later, Jo lunging Bobby’s old strawberry roan, Velle. He was a big old retired chariot horse who gave off a mean impression, but wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was perfect for Jo to learn on.

“Okay, tighten him up! Bring him in a little closer, slow him down just a tad,” Dean called from the fence. Jo lifted the long line and her free hand just a little bit. Velle read the sign and dropped his head. “Now drop the lead and turn your shoulder to him.” 

Jo looked skeptical, but did it. Velle licked his lips and took his cue. He stopped on a dime and walked slowly up to Jo, nudging her hand. Jo jumped a little and Dean chuckled. “Now wherever you go, Velle’ll follow you. That’s called a hookup.” 

“That’s dirty.” 

“Welcome to horse work, sweetheart.” 

Jo rolled her eyes, but smiled and walked around the edge of the ring. The big horse followed her like a lost puppy- Sam specifically. Dean smiled. There was a pounding in the dirt path behind him and he turned to see his giant moose of a brother himself huffing up the path to meet him. 

“You didn’t start me on 'Velle,” he whined goodnaturedly and leaned up against the fence. 

“Yeah well, you were practically born on a horse. You should be glad I didn’t start her on Lucifer.” 

“Heh, he’d eat her alive.”

“Well, she tried to run him next to Michael and put the twins on the outside of the team this morning. You’re lucky none of them got hurt.” 

Sam gaped at him. “How did she even get Michael out of his stall?”

“Beats me. Nearly got herself killed, but the girl’s got a knack.” 

“Damn. I’m surprised you didn’t get ‘Pala out.” 

“Ha, no. You gotta earn the right to lunge her. Velle’s a good start.” 

Sam nodded in agreement. They watched Jo for a little longer. She had Velle up to a canter when Sam heaved a big sigh like he wanted to talk, but he didn’t say anything.

“What?”

“Thanks.” 

“For what?” Dean knew very well what, but there was no way he was going to let his kid brother know that.

“Everything. Giving Jess and Hiram their freedom, the engagement, everything.” 

“It was nothing, Sam.” 

“Fifteen pieces a week is not nothing. I know lawyers that make less than that.” 

“They've been family for a lot longer than just today. They deserve it.” 

“Dean-” 

“You’re welcome,” Dean smiled. 

Sam still looked at him with a serious look on his face. Dean watched Jo and tried to ignore the puppy eyes. 

“For the love of all that’s holy, Sam, What?!” 

He produced a scroll from the folds of his robes. “I found this on your chair last night.” 

Dean had long since gotten over Sam going through his business- Bobby might be the caretaker of the family, but Sam was the Man of Letters. He’d have to show it to him sooner or later. 

“Please tell me you’re not considering giving the new governor your support.” 

“His name is Azazel, and I don’t know yet.” 

“You don’t know yet,” Sam deadpanned. 

“Sam-”

“You don’t have to do this.” 

“You know what they’ll do to us if I don’t?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do, Dean. And guess what? We’ll deal with it like we always do. Together.” 

Dean dropped his head between his forearms and took a deep breath. Sam was right. Just like Ellen and Bobby were right. 

“Ok. But we’ll make this decision as a family. Tonight. And if any one of us is uncomfortable with anything, I'm not doing it.” 

Sam clapped him on the shoulder and turned back to the house. “Come on. Lunch time.” He looked back at Jo, who had Velle doing flying lead changes. “Looks good, Jo!” He called. Jo lifted her arm in greeting and Velle changed directions on her. 

Dean laughed, “You can put him up, Jo. Good work. Don’t forget to rub him down.” 

That night at dinner, Bobby was retelling the runaway story, much to Jo’s chagrin. “Then she grabs one leather and has those poor boys doin’ circles, angry as the Devil Himself, and Dean’s tryin’ not to get bit…” 

Everyone laughed as they passed the dinner bowls around. It was no different from any Winchester-Singer-Harvelle-Moore family dinner- except now everyone reclining at the table that night was a free person. Officially. Forever. Dean, in spite of the Empire’s mad proposals, couldn’t be more proud. It made the whole debacle a little easier to bear. He met Sam’s eyes at his right hand, and smiled. 

The coffee was poured and Jess’s pastries passed around when Dean pulled out the scroll and cleared his throat. “Most of you know the Empire’s sending a new governor out here. I received this yesterday,” He said, motioning at the scroll. “It’s a petition to all the High Families to support Governor Azazel in his so-called ‘unification process’ or not. You’re all my family. I won’t do anything without your say. This affects you as much as me.”

The silence was heavy at the table. Everyone was deep in thought. It was Jess that broke the silence first. 

“What happens to us if we don’t support him?” 

“We could all be imprisoned. Sold to the slavers for not paying our taxes. Or worse. As the head of house, I could be stuck on a spike outside the city as an example. Sam too. The horses would go to the Empire’s War Machines- get carved up for dog meat-” 

“That’s at worst, though,” Bobby cut in. “In all probability, nothing would happen to us at all. The Winchester name is a powerful one. More powerful than you know. Your horses have been champions for generations. They’re valuable. You have the hearts of the people and a not insignificant fortune. We could make it. If worst came to worst, we’d go to the hills. Live with the nomads. We’d be okay.” 

“That’s if we were run out of town at all,” Sam added. “They can’t legally do all that stuff anyway-” 

“It doesn’t matter. They still do it,” Jo supplied glumly. They remembered the Campbell family.

“And all this if you do not choose to support the Governor? That seems harsh,” Jess mused. 

“Lebanon’s seen twelve different Governors in the last ten years. They’ve all either died or run back to the Holy Capitol,” Dean said. It wasn’t new to them. Everyone in Lebanon knew it. Taxes were harsher because of it. “The Empire has something to prove.” 

“I’ve heard of this Azazel,” Bobby said. “He drives a hard bargain, knows how to make things happen for the Empire. They put him over in Hellene after the big riots a few years ago. According to Rufus, they’re the model protectorate now. They’re lookin’ hard at us.” Rufus was Bobby’s oldest friend and former partner in the Charioteering business. He’d introduced Bobby to Ellen, as a matter of fact. 

Dean sighed hard. “I have a meeting with the City Chancellor tomorrow. I have to give him my answer.”

“Damn,” Ellen breathed. She put both hands on the table. “I told you my answer yesterday, and I haven’t changed it just because we might go through some shit. We’ve been there, baby, and we can go back. The Empire might own the land beneath us, but they don’t own us.” 

“This could be the end, you know.” 

“It’s been the end about forty times before now, Dean,” Bobby said. “I’m with Ellen. The Empire can go to Hell.” 

“Same,” said Jo. 

“We’re in,” Hiram piped up. “You’ve given us our freedom, Dean, and your family. We’re happy to give it back.” Jess nodded and squeezed Sam’s hand. 

“Sam?” Dean said. 

Sam looked up at his brother and smiled. “You and me against the world, right?” 

Suddenly the Empire didn’t seem so tough. The little, tough as nails family he had here in his home was bound by more than blood and they’d be together come whatever. A slow smile spread across Dean’s face. “Then let’s give ‘em a little Hell.” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

A wave crashed into the side of the Galley, rocking it precariously to the side. Salt water sprayed his body through the oar’s porthole. Dean clenched his jaw and focused on rowing. The stitches in the back of his head pulled and screamed with the rest of his muscles, but he dared not scream. It was a week after Alistair had ripped a hole in his scalp and gotten a spear in the back for his audacity. No one had seen the new Senator in the oar bank since- at least Dean hadn’t. There was still a stain of blood around his station, a bloody spear of a handprint on his oar from where they’d dragged him away to the infirmary. He didn’t remember much of those couple days. He never did. Not that he’d been there in what- months? But whatever happened in there, most people came out of it with more scars than they should have come out with. The ones that died were just thrown overboard anyway and there was no shortage of what the Empire considered “dangerous criminals.” Most were. In fact, the man he currently shared the bench with had murdered his wife and children. Why was he even thinking about them? All that mattered was enduring this. Surviving long enough to get out. Wherever he was when that happened- even as far as Sherat on the other side of the world- He’d get home somehow. He had to. He let himself get lost in the Oar Master’s beat, his gaze fixed unseeing on a point in front of him.

The trapdoor slammed open and the sound of sandals on the wood grabbed Dean’s attention, though he didn’t show it. The Senator appeared behind the Oar Master with a man he vaguely recognized as the ship’s captain- Uriel, maybe? He was big and broad with a cruel streak. It was a character trait amongst the galley crews. The Senator himself, though, was something else entirely. He was tall and wiry, built more like a Cavalryman or a Charioteer than a Galley man. His Senator’s robe was a bit wrinkled and his dark hair disheveled, as if he had more important things to do than maintain a pristine Empirical facade. His face was sharp and birdlike. His eyes were what caught Dean’s gaze. They were bright blue and almost familiar. Where had he seen them before? Vaguely, he was aware that the man was meeting his gaze. Dean didn’t blink, but didn’t look away either. This was a battle of wills, like with Alistair. Dean let his gaze harden with all the hatred he held for the Empire. The Senator didn’t waver, but he addressed the Oar Master, “Battle speed.”

The Oar Master doubled his pace and boomed the command, “BATTLE SPEED” in time to the new tempo. The slaves bent double and matched the drum’s pace. Most looked down in concentration. Dean's gaze didn’t waver. This wasn’t his first battle test and it certainly wouldn’t be his last. He let his gaze bore into the Senator. The speed began to take it’s toll on the slaves around him. Breathing began to labor, but no one had collapsed yet. Uriel murmured something to the Senator and he, still meeting Dean’s gaze, gave another order to the Oar Master, “Ramming Speed.”

“RAMMING SPEED!” The Oar Master Cried and again, doubled his pace. Dean sighed inwardly, but still met the gaze of the Senator, even as his own breath began to rasp and people began to groan with the effort. The pace lasted even longer than the previous increase. It drew on and on. This was not a real battle. This was a test. Usually, ramming speed calls lasted one or two minutes tops, but this one was going on for nigh five minutes. A couple of the newer and sicklier slaves collapsed into the aisles and over their oars. A few vomited. Still, Dean never wavered. The new guard whipped a few of the more pathetic ones and still, the pace was kept up. The Senator’s expression never moved, as if he was carved out of stone.

Finally, when almost a quarter of the slaves had dropped from exhaustion and Dean’s head was pounding in time with the beat, he called a halt. “SHIP OARS!” Dean shipped his oar without looking away, a practiced movement that not even the vomit and blood covering the floor could interrupt. He braced himself on the oar, chest heaving and still, as ever, meeting the Senator’s gaze evenly. He let a tiny smirk play over his lips and he lifted his chin- the mark of a man with pride, a nobleman, even in this Hellish situation. The Senator didn’t react, but Dean sensed he had won. Uriel gave a cursory nod and retreated above deck, but the politician stayed where he was. Finally, he broke Dean’s gaze and started down the aisle. He addressed the group as a whole, deep voice echoing along the hold.

“My name,” he said, “Is Castiel. You are here because you have disrespected the Empire and the Citizenship she bestowed upon you. You have murdered and stolen. By rights, you should have been executed. But in her wisdom and mercy, the Empire has given you to her conquest of the Earth.” Dean fought back a snort. Castiel continued, “We keep you alive to serve this ship. Row well and live.” He paced back down the line and stopped at Dean’s aisle. Dean still hadn’t dropped his gaze.

Castiel addressed him, “What have you done, Forty One, to land you here?”

“I have done nothing.”

“So says every slave.” Dean didn’t dare respond. The Senator didn’t wait for a response anyway, “You have much hatred in you, Forty One. That’s good. Hatred will keep you alive.” He said nothing more, but nodded at the Oar Master on his way out. “READY OARS!” He cried. Dean assumed the position by now so familiar, and didn’t let his gaze leave Castiel until the trap door closed behind him.

* * *

“Dean of the House of Winchester, to see the Chancellor Zachariah,” Dean told the stiff, pristine guard at the Esteemed Governor’s Palace. This wasn’t the first time Dean had had dealings with Zachariah over the years. He was a smarmy dick, but he was mostly fair as long as the Empire benefitted in some way. The guard nodded once and led Dean through a long marble hallway. They ended at an ornate door that opened into an extremely ornate room. A long mahogany table stretched through the middle, heaped with good things. At the opposite end, Zachariah stood, hands clasped behind his back, admiring a marble statue. The guard announced Dean and took his leave. At his name, Zachariah turned, his formal white robe stiffly swirling at the knees. A smile reminiscent of a jackal’s split across his face and he extended his hand in greeting, “Dean! So glad you could make it. Come in! Come in! Hungry?” Dean declined politely and handed his summons to the older man.

“I believe you wanted to speak with me.”

“Ah yes, a trivial matter, I assure you.” He motioned to an ornate gilt low backed chair and sat behind a large desk at one end of the room. “Sit, sit! How’s the family?”

“Family is fine, thank you. Sam is the same, just engaged this week, actually.”

“How exciting!” Zachariah said. He’d long ago mastered the art of sweet talking and politicking. He was sincere and completely, utterly, untrustworthy. Dean instantly regretted telling him of Sam and Jess, but Zachariah moved on immediately.

“I assume you’ve read the nature of the summons,” He said.

“Indeed. Support of the new Governor, Azazel Malach.”

“Yes. All the high families have been petitioned but yours, being the most influential and in the capital of Lebanon itself, is the most highly sought after.” Dean kept a carefully schooled expression.

Zachariah plowed on. “As you well know, tensions between Lawrence and the Empire have been strained for some time, even since before your grandfather was the head of your house. The Empire wishes to improve relations and turn Lawrence into a shining jewel of the desert.”

Dean didn’t believe that for a minute. “And you believe relations will improve with a raised tax, when the people can barely afford to feed themselves, and extra religious rites that they don’t believe in? A new Governor straight from the Holy Capitol itself?” He let out a laugh, “Zach, if you want to improve relations with a protectorate, don’t institute more of the same shit that’s been instituted on the people for the past three hundred years.”

Zachariah’s smile grew brittle, his gaze ice cold. “Tread carefully, Dean.”

“My answer is the same as it’s been for every Governor to come through. We pay our taxes and follow your laws, but we do not support Azazel until he earns it.” Dean stood and took his leave, saluting in the traditional way. He made it all the way home to the stable before taking a deep breath and laughing a little hysterically. He’d shoved their summons back in their faces and the world hadn’t ended. He patted his baby’s neck and gave her an extra handful of oats before going up to the house for dinner.

* * *

It was well past the hour when his shift of slaves were to be asleep in the hold. In fact, is was close to dawn and they’d start rowing again soon. Dean was in a half asleep state- he never allowed himself to succumb too hard to exhaustion, it was too dangerous. He felt the footsteps along the aisle before he heard them. His eyes flew open and he tensed for the inevitable beating. The guard didn’t lift his whip though. He bent and placed a large iron key in the lock on the iron catch where the chain kept Dean’s shackled feet in place. The loop fell back with a soft clank and Dean became even more skeptical. The guard moved on to the catch on the wall above him. The chain connecting his wrists and neck dropped and he brought his arms up to shield himself. He was yanked to his feet by the chain attached to his collar. No one stirred as he shuffled behind the guard, head erect, chain clinking softly across the floor.

He was led out of the Slave’s hold and onto the main deck. He breathed deeply and looked in wonder at the sky filled with stars and the moon so bright- God, how long had it been? He stopped his breath from catching in his throat and forced himself to follow the guard below deck at the other end of the ship. He was shown into a well lit, conservatively decorated cabin; really it was more of an office. A large, well made desk stood to one side and a pair of chairs were set in one corner. A second door marked the entrance to the officer’s bunk. That in and of itself was telling despite the austere decoration. Aside from the rather large oil lamp, there was almost nothing else of note. Only the standard short sword of the Legion of the Empire decorated the wall above the desk. Still, only one person got a private, two room suite on an otherwise cramped galley ship.

Dean stood awkwardly in the center of the room, just waiting. Who knew what the new Senator even wanted? He could guess, but he preferred not to. It wasn’t his first time in some officer’s private quarters because some guardsman liked the look of him and hadn’t seen a woman in fifteen months. Somehow, though, he’d hoped it wouldn’t happen on this ship. The door shut firmly behind him. Dean stood carefully at attention, unwilling to acknowledge the creeping fear at the back of his throat. Castiel was almost silent as he moved about the room- yet another thing that marked him as an anomaly. In fact, the only thing that warned Dean of his proximity was a soft rustle of fabric and a slight movement in his periphery. “You do not have the bearing of a slave, Forty One.” Dean blinked. Of all the things to lead with… “How long have you been indentured to the Empire?” Castiel moved to his desk and rifled through a sheaf of parchment.

Dean allowed himself to relax just a tiny bit. “Four years, eight months, and twenty four days, Senator.”

Castiel's eyebrows twitched upward in a minute expression of surprise. “And what did you do to deserve such a punishment, Forty One?” Dean met his gaze evenly. The silence between them stretched long as they took measure of each other. Castiel’s expression remained earnest and open. It was weird. It threw Dean off. This man was a Senator. He shouldn't care about the fate of a galley slave beyond his ability to row the ship. Nevertheless, Dean sensed that Castiel, for whatever reason, truly was interested in Dean's background, and not for the usual fantasy-driven situations most members of a ship’s crew engaged in- especially late into a voyage when female companionship was nowhere to be found; Alistair being the chief contributor of late. Castiel displayed none of those characteristics. Again, Dean was reminded of the oh-so-familiar build of a charioteer even under the rumpled, too-big Senator’s robe.

Finally, Dean broke the silence, “I murdered the governor of my protectorate and attempted to overthrow the Empire's rule.”

Castiel’s head tilted to one side. A candle on the desk guttered and came back, sending a few sparks flying. Castiel’s eyes flashed in the dim light and Dean felt he couldn’t focus. It was like he was laughing at Dean. Like he knew Dean was lying and could see him for who he really was. It was unnerving and uncomfortable, but Dean couldn’t look away. “Such a crime is punished by death, Forty One. There are no exceptions,” Castiel’s voice was low and rough. The kind of voice that did not brook well with argument.

“As you say, Senator. And yet, here I am.”

“Indeed,” he stepped forward into his space. “Have you ever wondered why the Empire would see fit to spare your life where all other traitors such as yourself have been crushed?” When Dean would be returned to his oar with nothing but time to think, he would kick himself for what he was about to do. It was a classic game of Bait-the-Bear and to react was stupid and reckless. Even so, The only thing Dean felt was the hilt of Castiel’s knife resting gently against his knuckles. He wrapped his hand around it and stabbed at his chest, fully intent on ending the smug bastard right there in his own cabin. Castiel deftly caught his wrist and smiled a little, that piercing gaze never leaving Dean’s.

“You have spirit, but not one of a murderer. A fighter and a hunter, however…” He carefully extracted the knife from Dean’s hand and moved back to his desk. Dean had the distinct feeling that he’d passed a test. “In the Holy Capitol, I hold a stake in the Great Chariot Circuit. I could give you a life outside the Galleys. You would still be a slave, but you would hold an infinitely better life than the poor excuse you have for one here. What say you?”

Dean did a double take. Offers like this weren’t uncommon, but there was always a personal motive. Alistair himself had made such an offer for when his tour in the Galleys was done. Be his personal whipping boy, and Dean would get off the Galleys. Dean would have rather died. But this seemed- different. Genuine. For once, Dean didn’t feel pressured and it sent him even more off kilter. His usual tight-lipped composure dropped for a second. “Why? Of all the poor bastards on this Godforsaken ocean, why me?”

Castiel fingered the knife in his hands idly. “You are an experienced oarsman. I saw it in the hold earlier. You have been in the galleys for much longer than any normal slave. So many have gone mad or died and yet you still fight. Your tenacity is wasted here in the dark. I have work for you, Forty One. What say you?”

“What do you get out of all this?”

“A good charioteer is hard to come by. You would make me a very rich man.” The way he said it, Castiel sounded almost flippant. “Something tells me you don’t need anymore money, Senator,” Dean again let the title drip off his tongue with a sneer, but the animosity wasn’t behind it this time. Before Castiel could respond, Dean reset his shoulders and lifted his chin.

“With respect, I would like time to consider your offer.” Castiel raised one eyebrow and squinted at him, weighing his words. He gave a curt nod of assent.

“You have until the next sunrise. Consider your position, Forty One. Dismissed.”

Dean, finally released from Castiel’s piercing gaze, was returned to his oar. The sun had long since risen and the constant rhythm of the Oar Master’s drum had started up again. He trudged down the aisle and sidled into his row. He sat down and the guard fumbled with the chain at his feet. He flipped the catch over the chain, but didn’t lock it. He moved on to Dean’s hands and neck. The same thing happened. The latches were closed on the oar, but they weren’t locked. The guard didn’t say anything, offered no explanation. The act didn’t go unnoticed, though.

“Why did he do that, Forty One?” his bench mate asked. Dean thought his name was Gordon or something.

He shook his head and answered semi-honestly, “I don’t know.” He could guess, though. Castiel was trying to win him over. He didn’t have much time to mull his situation over too much. The whip cracked behind him and he gripped the oar, joining the rhythm of the drum. A crash outside the ship nearly sent Dean flying into the aisle. A shout rang out from above and the Oar Master shifted the beat, “BATTLE SPEED!” Outside the portholes, there was a flash of red and the smell of smoke tainted the already acrid air. Dean breathed deeply and focused on the Oar Master’s beat. He forcibly did not pay any attention to the sudden freedom of his legs. Just braced himself and rowed. The ever present litany of “get back home, find Sammy” redoubled and was practically screaming in Dean’s ears.

A blast rocked the ship. Dean and his bench mate lost control of their oars, along with half the slaves on the port side. The ship tossed violently as everyone clambered back into their positions, avoiding the guard’s whip as they disentangled themselves from chains and avoiding wildly swinging oars. The ship righted and Dean braced himself on his oar for just a second before picking up the beat again. _Get back home, find Sammy_. A quiet susurration began on the opposite side of the aisle from Dean. He ignored it. It grew louder, even as the beat became more insistent. Soon, even the guard couldn’t whip the slaves into silence.

“We’re going to be rammed!” One cried in a panic. Dean looked up at a flash from the opposite side of the boat. The slaves were in an uproar, pulling on their chains, screaming to be let free. The guard made for the hatch. Dean saw his chance and began fumbling. The guard passed. Dean leapt from his bench and threw his wrists over the guard’s head and yanked the chain tight across his throat. The oncoming galley hit with a sickening, deafening CRUNCH! The smell of blood and fire filled the air. Dean wrenched himself off the now dead guard and fumbled for the keys. Water flooded the hold as Dean scrambled over bodies and slipped along, fitting as many keys into as many locks as he could. The ones he freed made their way out the gaping hole in the side of the ship, hoping to die free at sea rather than chained in the bottom of another galley ship somewhere.

The keys were knocked from Dean’s hand as the water reached his chest. He began yanking on chains, thrashing in the water. Finally, a burly slave lifted him from where he searched frantically and shoved him to the hole.

“I’ll free as many as I can!” he barked. “Get out of here! Save yourself, brotha!” Dean opened his mouth to protest, but the man dangled the lost keys in front of him and smiled the first genuine smile he’d seen in- God, years. Dean clapped the man on his shoulder and dove for the hole. Another explosion above him sent Dean flying back into the hold. A body dropped from the deck and bounced on the jagged edge of the hole. The man grabbed for a piece of shattered oar. Dean recognized him as it dislodged from the hull- “Cas!” He yelled, leaping for the hole. Castiel bobbed unconscious in the water. Dean didn’t think- just dove. The chains at his extremities made swimming difficult, especially with an unconscious body, but Dean managed.

He pulled both of them on a piece of floating driftwood- formerly a piece of the hull. An oar was still attached. Dean laid Cas out on the wood and stood, rowing slowly away from the melee. A few bodies rose to the surface. Dean stripped them of three water canteens and a miraculously dry pack of salted meat. The sounds of battle faded. Eventually, Dean collapsed next to Cas. He pried a long, thick nail out of the wood and set to work on the locks on his shackles. He ached all over. Still, Dean worked into the night, not daring to think about trying to feed himself for more than a few days, let alone if the man next to him awoke. He huffed in exhausted triumph as he freed one chain and moved on to the next. as he worked, questions started to rise, unbidden, from the back of his mind.

Why had he saved Cas? Why had Cas saved him? He was the enemy- the same stock that had enslaved Dean in the first place and yet- he’d taken a shine to Dean. Another chain broke free. Dean’s gaze settled on the bedraggled senator- his unruly hair matted with blood, his wrinkled robe torn and bloody,face drawn and haggard even in sleep. Again, Dean was struck by the tightly bound muscular body of a charioteer and he couldn’t shake the thought that this guy was completely different from every other member of the Empire that he had ever met.

He caught himself staring and bent back over the shackles. Castiel was just leverage- yeah, that was it. A bargaining chip for his freedom. Nothing more. The senator’s breathing started coming in quick, shallow breaths and Dean stopped fussing with the shackle at his ankle. Cas’ eyes fluttered open and rolled back in his head.

“Dude. dudedudedudedudedude,” Dean vaulted over the oar and cupped his face. “Do not die on me, man!” He bent his head to listen for breathing- nothing. “Fuck.” He dropped Cas back on the raft and felt for a pulse. “Shit.” He shook his head and started pumping his arms against his chest like he saw Bobby do all those years ago when his own father had bit it. The raft rocked back and forth, his chain clanked against the wood planks. Dean kept pumping and swearing. Finally, Cas coughed and moaned. He rolled to his side, clutching his chest. Dean sat back hard, rocking the raft even more. He reached out a hand to steady the senator. “Easy, easy. Welcome back.” Cas huffed and looked up at him. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Forty one?” he rasped.

“Hey man, don’t talk for a bit, okay?” Dean handed him a canteen of water. “Just sips, alright? We don’t have too much.”

Cas accepted it and looked at him. The question in his face was clear, _why did you save me_?

“Consider us even. You left me unhooked, I pulled you out of the wreckage.” Dean looked around for the nail he’d been using to pick his locks. Ah, there it was, lodged in one of the cracks. He retrieved it and set back to work. Eventually, Cas’s breathing started to even out. He looked back and saw the Senator’s eyes closing.

“Hey. Hey!” Dean’s voice was sharp in the evening air. Cas looked at Dean with weary, almost annoyed eyes. “Don’t fall asleep yet, alright? You took a nasty knock to the head. Here.” He helped Cas sit up against the oar.

“Why are you doing this, Forty One? Why don’t you just kill me?”

“Leverage. Besides, I should be asking you that question.” He unhooked Cas’ heavy wet cloak and laid it out as best he could.

“You-” Cas cut off with a cough. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” But Cas’ eyes were closing again. “Come on, man. Don’t do that, Cas. Can’t hand the Empire a dead body now, can I? Hey, Hey!” He slapped his cheek. “Listen. You wanted my name? Well stay awake buddy. My name is Dean Winchester. Son of John, Son of Henry. Last- last of the line of ancient Kings in Lebanon. I was sentenced to the galleys under trumped up charges and my family- fuck, I don’t know what happened to them, but I gotta find them, Cas. You’re my only ticket out of this mess, you CANNOT FUCKING DIE!” he gripped the soaking wet Senator’s robe and shook. Cas’ eyes sharpened for just a second and he gripped Dean’s left shoulder hard.

“Dean… Winchester…has been saved,” he mumbled as his eyes lost focus again and slipped shut.

His breathing remained even, if shallow. Dean sat back against the oar, rubbing his shoulder and watching the man next to him. The whole situation was surreal. He wasn’t supposed to care about anything that happened to any member of the Empire- especially a Senator. But this guy, he’d wriggled his way under Dean’s skin somehow and brought back that little piece of humanity and dignity and rekindled his will to live besides that endless mantra of get back home, find Sammy. It was still there, but now it had new meaning. Now that one line was possible. He cast his mind back, looking for the last time he’d felt that way about anything: His family, his horses, anything! But all he could see was- well, that last day.

* * *

The day the new governor came to town dawned bright and sunny. A sweet breeze blew through the air and the town of Lawrence buzzed with excitement. It was the day of the Grand Imperial Chariot Race, and not even the Empire’s newest incarnation of oppression could take away the people’s good spirits. They all flocked to the stadium on the outskirts of town. Wind whipped the flags above the stadium in a colorful display of the High Families of Lawrence. The Imperial Flag stood above them in a show of power. Vendors stalls lined the main road and courtyard. Smells of food and horses and dust all intermingled into a distinctive aroma that only heightened the excitement of the people. People pressed into the stands with sticks of spiced meat and fruit and flagons of beer and mead. Ten people walked slowly around the track pulling long rakes behind them, smoothing it out for the big event.

Beneath the track were a massive network of tunnels and stalls. Grooms and Chariot builders raced back and forth with myriad last minute duties. Horses stomped and whinnied as they were rubbed to a high shine, more excited than some of the spectators were for the race. The Winchesters, like the rest of the racers, each had their own block of stalls. Bobby ran a polish cloth over Sam’s now rebuilt, bronze burnished chariot until it shone like fire. Down the way, Jo gave the same treatment to Dean’s black and silver chariot. This wasn’t the first time the boys had raced each other on the track. It wasn’t even the first time they’d been in the Grand Imperial together. But it was the day Azazel came into town. He’d be in the stands watching.

Sam and Dean had long since finished tacking up their teams. They were putting on all the gleaming racing armor in the tack room when there was a knock at the door. Dean looked at his brother and went to the door. It was Zachariah.

“Can I have a minute?” Dean suppressed and eye roll.

“Sam,” he nodded to his brother and opened the door just wide enough for Sam to join him. “My answer’s not changing Zach.”

“I’m not here about that, Dean.”

“Then what do you want? We have a race to run,” Sam snapped. Zach arched an eyebrow.

“Sam, how’s the family?” he drawled. Sam narrowed his eyes but didn’t answer. Jess was in the stands with Ellen, but no one needed to tell Zachariah that.

“What’s your business, Chancellor?” Dean asked, his voice cold.

Zachariah responded with a venomous, “Just wanted to wish you luck. My own team will be running this year, you know. Good team, from the Holy Circuit in the Capitol City. Picked especially by Azazel.” Dean could read between the lines, but he wanted Zach to say it.

“Spit it out. You want us to throw the race.”

“That is strictly against the rules, Dean Winchester and I resent your accusation.”

“But it would be taken as a sign of respect by the Governor, is that right?” Sam cut in.

“My horses will win this contest fair and square.” Zachariah snapped. “But that’s beside the point. If- _if_ , Dean- If one of your teams were to win the race, I would just like to remind you that it is customary to accept the winning wreath from the Governor as a sign of respect.”

“This isn’t my first race, Chancellor. I am aware of the protocol, as is my brother.”

“Great. Then it shouldn’t be an issue. Give my love to Jess, Sam.” Sam tensed next to him and Dean put a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you. See you on the track.” He shut the door. Sam was seething with rage. “You heard that, right? He pretty much threatened-”

“Yeah, I heard.” Dean interrupted. “Save it for the track. Let’s run a clean race- do this right. Okay?” He handed Sam a short cloak with the family crest on it and swirled his own around his shoulders. He held out his arm. Sam clasped it hard. “You and me against the world,” Dean said as he clapped a hand to Sam’s shoulder. “Let’s go beat those evil sons of bitches and raise a little Hell.” Sam smiled and followed him out to the horses. The charioteers were escorted to the main tunnel by their respected hands. Bobby and Jo had heard the exchange with Zachariah. They knew what was at stake.

“I sure hope you boys know what you’re doing,” Bobby said just before he left them. Dean gave him one of his winning smiles.

“Who do you think you’re talking to? We always come out alright in the end.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “Good luck, boys.” He and Jo left them then to go sit in the stands with Ellen and Jess. Dean and Sam smiled and readjusted the grip on their reins. Each team of horses twitched excitedly and bobbed their heads, just itching to run. The crowd reached a fever pitch and a blast of trumpets heralded the start of the Entrance March. Team by team, each contestant entered the circuit, struggling to keep their horses in check until the official lineup.

This was definitely the most excruciating part of chariot racing. Not the brutality of the race itself or the almost blasphemous winner’s ceremony or even the inevitable funerals for fallen riders. No, it was definitely trying to keep ten teams of high strung horses in a perfectly straight line all the way around the track to show off for the deafening crowd. Dean’s team- particularly Impala- arched their necks and lifted their legs just a little higher to show off for their adoring fans. Sam’s team next to him were no less showy and every bit as antsy. They tossed their heads and nipped- drawing excited yells from the audience.

At long last, they made it to the starting line. A gold rope was stretched across the starting line and a flourish from the trumpets announced the arrival of Azazel and his entourage. As one, the crowd fell silent. He slowly walked to stand in front of the governor’s seat- a wide, gilt monstrosity. The man himself carried himself with confidence and a smug surety that came from years of elaborate plans always going his way. He reminded Dean of Zachariah. He tried not to gag. Azazel raised his hands in a silent blessing from the Empire’s Gods- in particular, the Emperor himself. It was a familiar gesture to the people of Lawrence: a religious sign of special significance. It was said of old that the Line of Ancient Kings had been taught such a blessing by God Himself to purify their people and give them strength. To see an Invader use such a sacred part of their culture perverted to support the Empire’s power against them, made Dean feel dirty. He glanced at Sam- a Man of Letters and a Man of the Law- to see a look of profound disgust on his face. So they were agreed. As members of the Line of Ancient Kings themselves, Azazel had made this personal. No way were they going to bow before this Pretender to the Throne of God’s chosen Kings. This race would not be thrown.

A couple beats passed. It seemed like an eternity. Azazel stood there holding his Blasphemous position and the stadium of people waited with bated, furious breath. The Governor’s hands dropped. The starting rope dropped at the same time. As one, the teams of horses leapt from the starting line and the roar of hoofbeats mingled with the roar of the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spotted Zachariah’s chariot, resplendent in Imperial Regalia, the driver furiously whipping his horses into a frenzy. Dean focused on his own team and kept an eye on Sammy. It was long race. If Zachariah’s driver wanted to make stupid decisions regarding the wellbeing of his team, then that was up to him. He was a traitor anyway.

The Grand Imperial was an especially long race. It was seven laps around the massive track. There were no rules and no penalties. It wasn’t uncommon for a chariot to fall apart or a team of horses to start a fight and hurl the driver into a bone crushing melee of sharp hooves and sharper chariot wheels. Dean swerved three major crashes not two laps into the race. A whip cracked and he glanced sideways to see Zachariah’s man pull a rival chariot off balance, rending the axle with a sickening crunch and the driver disappeared in a cloud of dust. Sam and Dean wove with expert grace through the increasingly chaotic track. They kept their horses in check. Impala settled into a quick, steady gallop, anchoring the team. Sam was micro-managing Lucifer and Michael, keeping them occupied with the race and not their otherwise fierce hatred for each other.

They knew the track and the race like the back of their hands and their expertise was showing. For all Zachariah’s man tried to catch up, he’d driven his horses too hard in the first half and exhausted himself by sabotaging too many people. Dean cut in front of him between the twisted wreckage of two chariots in the final lap. He hauled back on his reins and shook his fist at Dean who paid him no heed and let his team go when they hit the home stretch. He saw Sam do the same. They were neck and neck, whooping in triumph as they crossed the line. The crowd, raucous before, was tumultuous now. This was more than just a victory. This was a day that would go down in the books of Legend as the day the Empire cursed the Line of Ancient Kings of Lawrence and regretted it. Flowers and outer robes fluttered to the track as the Winchesters took their victory lap. About halfway through, Sam raised his hand in blessing, in the true style of the Ancient Kings. Dean glanced at the Royal Box, aware there would be Hell to pay, and raised his hand as well. Bobby and Jo met them in the tunnel to the private ready-rooms.

“I sure hope you boys know what you’re doin’,” Bobby grumbled yet again.

“Listen, it’s not like we asked the Governor to disrespect us and God in front of our people,” Sam shot back.

“I’m not arguin’ with you, kid. But you know you’ll catch Hell for this.” Despite the thrill of winning and finally giving a public response to the Empire's constant injustices, Sam did have the tact to look a little sheepish as he stepped off the back of his chariot. Dean couldn't blame him. His own stomach was doing some dangerous swoops. There was a big part of him that just wanted to cut and run- be a coward and take his family and hide up in the hills behind Lawrence. He opened his mouth to say just that-

"Dean Winchester, don't you fucking dare," Jo snarled from Impala's headstall. Dean dropped to the ground and pointed at her.

"It's my job-"

"Bullshit, Dean!" Bobby snapped. "Your daddy was a great man, but one of his greatest mistakes was putting the weight of your family on your shoulders. We are our own people and we chose to stand up to the Empire together. Your job is to live with integrity. You boys did that today and whatever happens, I am proud of you." There were tears in his eyes as he said it, but there was no arguing.

"You should get out of town though," Sam put in. "Get Ellen and Jess and Hiram. Drive them up into the hills. If we don't come back..."

"You'll come back." Jo swung up behind Dean's team. Her tone brooked no argument and she didn't give them enough time to talk back anyway. She flicked the reins and brought the horses into a trot, leaving the rest of them in the tunnels with, as Jess called it, Emotional Constipation. They were saved from uncomfortable emotional revelations by the appearance of the Imperial Guard, there to escort them to the stands to receive their reward- and probably a sword to the gut. Sam and Dean gave Bobby one last nod and turned back to the track.

A flourish of trumpets again marked their entrance and both Sam and Dean instinctively walked with a little more swagger and pride in front of their audience.

They approached the Imperial Throne with their heads held high. Azazel stood there, thin and slimy. Zachariah stood just behind him, looking calm but smug, as if he didn't actually care that he had lost a fortune that day.  The new Governor raised his hands for silence. 

"Today is an auspicious day!" He announced. "Today, there is not merely one winner of the Grand Imperial, but two!

The crowd went wild. Azazel let it continue as he reached for the ceremonial wreaths. He turned back and faced the Winchesters. This was when they were to bow. They didn't. Zachariah turned red and put his hands on his belt. 

Finally, Azazel didn't wait any longer. He reached up and, despite the indignity, placed the wreaths on Sam and Dean's heads. The crowd didn't stop screaming. 

Dean turned to his brother with a smile- maybe they would get out of here after all. 

The screams changed. A point of red bloomed on Azazel's chest. Zachariah's blade stuck out of it. Horror washed through Dean, even as Zachariah pointed at the guards , barking an order. 

Sam lunged and Dean punched, but they were both restrained too quickly. The hilt of a sword came crashing down on Sammy's head and Dean vaguely heard himself scream until a gag was shoved in his mouth and a hood thrown over his head. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited cuz I didn't like the original ending. I might polish it a bit more later, but it's 2AM and my brain is fried. :)

Dean rowed in a general Southerly direction during the day and fished at night, all the while keeping an eye on his new companion. Cas was still delirious, but he started sitting up by himself after a week and he took over the fishing after two. A few days after that he stood up and jostled the raft so bad they both went tumbling into the water. Dean made him do at half the rowing after that.

Fine, a third.

The nights were pleasant for the most part- the fresh air and clear view of the stars made up for the occasional chill. Until one particularly cold morning he was woken by a weight settling on his body. Cas’ cloak was crusted with salt and smelled a bit like sweat and blood, but it was warm. Neither of them mentioned the gesture in the morning. Dean kept the cloak.

It all would've been fine if Cas just stopped staring at him. He could actually feel the spot at the top of his spine like Cas was trying to pry him open with the power of his stupidly bright eyes. The cloak helped a little, providing just a tiny bit of privacy and a reassuring weight when the dreams got too real and the sheer openness of his sudden freedom would almost make him dive into the ocean where he could hide more effectively. Cas didn't stop though. Dean found himself waking up every morning, not to the sun over the ocean, but two eyes boring into his back. Still, it took him a while to allow himself to react to it. He'd long since conditioned himself not to react to anything at all no matter what. Reaction in the galleys meant punishment, as Dean's still healing scalp was all too well aware. Somewhere in his head though, a tiny voice whispered that nothing would get better if no one knew it was a problem. It sounded kinda like Ellen. So Dean forced himself to shudder and jerk awake the next time he felt Cas’ eyes on him.

“You know, it’s weird to stare at people while they’re sleeping, right Cas?” Dean snapped.

“Your dreams are troubled.” Cas tilted his head. “I was merely watching over you.”

He met Cas's eyes with a hard gaze. “Yeah, well it's creepy,” Dean huffed. He pulled the cloak tighter around himself as he sat up. He turned his back and dangled his legs over the edge of the raft. Cas kept staring for awhile before pulling himself upright and taking the oar. Dean had noticed that he still rowed South, away from the Holy City, even when it wasn't specifically asked if him. It was like Cas wanted to escape the Empire as much as he did. Which was ridiculous. Cas was a high ranking official. He had the good life. Power, prestige, money, probably good family ties, all of it. And yet, Cas didn't object to rowing away from anywhere the Empire might be. He didn't even mention the Empire, now that Dean thought about it. Just did his bit of work for the day, ate a little food, made pleasant small talk, and stared at him. It was weird. The sun marched across the sky and eventually, Cas left the oar and sat down next to him.

Like, right next to him.

“Cas,” Dean said, “We talked about this. Personal Space.”

“Apologies,” Cas replied, shifting a little bit. But not much.

“What’s your deal, anyway?” Dean finally exploded. “Normal people in your situation would be hightailing it back home, dragging the runaway slave behind him the whole way. But you! You left me unhooked that night. And now you- you row as fast as you can away from them- your own people! Why? What the Hell did you do, Cas?”

Cas was quiet. He looked out over the water with a solemn gaze, elbows propped on knees, hands folded and dangling between them so his knuckles barely brushed the water. He was quiet so long that Dean got up and did his share of the rowing, thankful Cas wan't staring at him. The rhythm of the water came so naturally that he didn't realize he was muttering until Cas asked, “Who's Sammy?”

Dean stopped rowing abruptly and almost dropped the oar. Cas was looking over his shoulder with that steady blue gaze. Dean felt his own face drop back into a stone mask and he fixed his eyes on a point directly ahead of him and kept rowing, making sure the liturgy was internal this time. It wasn't until the sun was sinking on his right hand side that Cas stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. Dean stopped and met his gaze. Cas held out a nearly empty canteen from the pile in the center of the raft. Dean took it and drained it, all the while maintaining eye contact. For once, Dean didn't feel the discomfort he usually felt with the prolonged staring and close proximity. It was slightly worrying.

He sighed and handed the canteen back. “Thanks,” he said. Cas nodded and Dean felt the chill in the air tighten his muscles. He stretched and left the oar to go sit on the edge of the raft again. Again, Cas followed, this time with a dried fish. They split it and watched the sun sink into the water.

“You remind me of my sister,” Cas said quietly.

“Gee, thanks, Cas.”

“Dean,” Cas said wearily, “Please.” He took a breath. “When I put you through your paces that day in the hold, I saw Anna in the way you stared me down. She was in many ways just as determined and stubborn as you. My family, like all the high families in the Empire, requires that you serve in the Empire's military and she was no exception. We went through training together. She taught me to ride and drive a chariot. She was my superior for many years and we planned on keeping it that way. I’d’ve followed her anywhere. Anyway, we received orders from on high one day. I was young and as it turned out, intentionally blind to the nature of our business. I followed orders like a good soldier. Anna tried to warn me, she was always trying to make me see-” Cas’ voice took a bitter tone. “The orders said there was a mole in our garrison. Someone disloyal to the Emperor. We were to root him out and turn him over to our superiors. I should have seen it. I didn't want to. Anna said we had to look at the orders objectively, that it was a loyalty test and we had to be seen as a strong united front. But the orders held the seal of the Emperor Himself and who was I to defy a god? So I found the traitor and turned him in. He was just a kid, fresh out of training, and-”

Cas was quiet for awhile. When he did speak, his voice was strained- “They made Anna kill him. In front of all of us. She never really forgave me for that, but- she still tried to open my eyes to what the Empire really was- is- until…” Cas trailed off and breathed deep before continuing. “She was caught. Sent back to training camp and when she came back, she wasn't Anna anymore. I tried to get her back. I tried everything I knew, but she was gone. She finally threw herself from a cliff. Whatever they did to her, the Empire took my sister from me and drove her to-” Cas blew out a breath and dropped his head in his hands. Dean just sat there, not sure what to say.

Finally, Cas looked up at him. “I was reassigned to the Galleys, my father's name the only thing keeping me from being 'reprogrammed’. When I saw you, unbroken, it was like she was daring me to help you. Who knows how many people the Empire has crushed for the good of world domination? If I could save one. Just one. Maybe- maybe Anna could forgive me. Maybe I could forgive myself.” Dean heaved his own deep breath and watched the sun dip below the horizon. He idly grabbed one of their makeshift fishing nets and tossed it in the water, still not sure what to make of his companion’s story. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cas turned to him abruptly, “You don't need to tell me about Sammy, Dean. Your business is your own. But you need to know- I have no love for the Empire. If we make land, you need have no fear of me returning to them or turning you in. Besides. You saved my life. I owe you a debt, Dean Winchester.” With that, Cas retreated to his side of the raft and laid down. Dean stayed up late into the night and watched the stars. He didn't sleep for a long time. Neither, he suspected, did Cas.

* * *

 

It rained the next day. Dean brought in a bigger catch of fish than usual and Cas set out the canteens. They huddled under the old cloak until it soaked through. It wasn't long until their teeth were chattering and the only thing they could do to keep warm was row and clean fish. They took turns until they were exhausted. It wasn't long until they found themselves wrapped in eachother’s arms, rubbing backs and hands vigorously just so they could feel them.

Dean began talking at some point, to keep his teeth from chattering. He talked about Sam and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Jess and Hiram and his horses. He told Cas all about his father and the family business, the Men of Letters, and the Empire's oppression of his people. He told him about Zachariah and his betrayal at the Grand Imperial, “The bastard just up and publicly denounced us as murderers without a trial. Next thing I knew, I was chained in the back of a cart, on my way down to the Galleys. I gotta make it back, Cas. If there's even a chance any of them are alive, I gotta find them. This was all my fault and I gotta fix it…” He just kept the steady stream of talking up until they both fell asleep, still shivering, but surprisingly comfortable in each other's arms.

* * *

Dean woke to the sun burning behind his eyelids. He wiped the water and crust from his eyes and rolled over to see Cas leaning against the oar, watching him. Dean didn't flinch, and this time it wasn't because he'd forced himself into passivity. He still bitched about the staring, but there was no bite behind the words.

He wondered idly if the elements were finally getting to him and he was losing what was left of his mind as he rowed his bit for the day. 

"So what happens if we get discovered out here?" he asked when the fishing nets were thrown into the water for the night.

"Depends on who discovers us and what the circumstances are," Cas replied, his voice gravelly and deep. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the oar. "If the battle was lost and the Empire discovers us, then according to the law I'll be treated as a coward and probably executed. You'll either be killed for attempting escape or put back in the Hold." 

"You're all sunshine today, Cas." 

Cas didn't acknowledge him and continued to speculate, "If the battle was won, and the Empire finds us, I'll be granted a furlough and treated as a Hero of War. I'd bring you along with me, of course. I can't grant your freedom- only the Emperor can do that. But I can make good on my promise back on the Galley. You needn't die out here." 

"Thanks," Dean said. He was only mildly surprised to find that he meant it. 

"If anyone else finds us, they'll probably kill me because I'm Filthy Empire Scum and would make a lovely message to send off to one of my brothers or my father or something." 

"Doesn't your family hate you?" 

Cas squinted at him for just a few seconds before leaning his head back again. "That has no bearing on the fact they will literally go to war over anything. A dead family member on the steps of the Imperial palace is more than they could ever hope for." 

"You get sassy when you're tired." 

"You get nosy when you're hungry." 

"It's a gift." 

"Indeed." 

Dean allowed himself a grin- just a little one- and started to accept the fact that he felt like a human being again.

He laid back and watched the stars and thought of sitting in the back pasture with Sam, a couple beers, and whatever beat up old chariot Bobby was working on. For once he didn't try to fight the happiness of the memory and fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

 

* * *

The days continued to stretch on in boring yet comfortable routine. They stopped drying fish after a group of seabirds stole them all and nearly tore everything they had to shreds. There were more than enough fresh fish in the nets every morning and they could see a large school of them play near the surface every now and then. They rationed the water, but even if they did run out, they wouldn't go hungry. 

They caught a bird once. It was gamey. 

Dean told stories to pass the time. Stories about his family, his home, even folklore from the Old Times. Cas recited classic epic poems and the entire history of the Empire from memory. Dean cringed his way through it the way Cas cringed his way through Dean's childish fairytales. 

When the nights were chilly, Dean would share his cloak. They didn't talk about it in the morning. 

* * *

 

"You once mentioned a man named Zachariah," Cas remarked one morning. 

"You know him?" Dean didn't break his rhythm. 

"He was a member of my father's staff when I was a boy. I never liked him." 

"Somehow I'm not surprised." 

"You think he's still in Lawrence?" 

"He better not be if he wants to live." 

"As I recall- granted I was much smaller at the time- but Zachariah never struck me as the kind of man who would be moved unless by the forces of the gods themselves." 

"You'd be right, if the gods cared enough to get off their asses once in awhile." 

Cas' gaze grew sharp. "The gods move in-"

"If you say 'mysterious ways', I will shove this oar up your ass." He hadn't meant for there to be anger behind the words, but there it was. He hadn't thought about the gods in a long time. He hadn't lifted his hands in blessing since the Grand Imperial. Now that he thought about it, the very thought of the God he was raised with or the Gods of Cas' family made him want to vomit. What had they done to deserve this? What had Sammy done? Or Jess? What even had Cas himself done? Followed orders? What about Anna? Dean would never meet her, but surely she didn't deserve to be driven to suicide because of the gods.

A touch on his shoulder brought him back to himself. 

"Slow down." 

Dean blinked and looked around. Cas looked into his eyes and Dean realized he hadn't been breathing until now. The raft bounced on the waves at a dangerous angle, threatening to tip over entirely if forced to go much faster. His fingers hurt from gripping the oar. They were probably bleeding. Dean drew a shaky breath and met Cas' gaze. There was no anger in those eyes. Just grief. Dean's breathing came faster and he realized his cheeks were wet- and had been for awhile. Cas gently pried his fingers off the oar and pulled him into a rough embrace. Dean buried his face in Cas' shoulder and wept bitterly for everything that had been stolen from both of them.

Cas held him until they fell asleep. They didn't talk about it in the morning. 

 

 


End file.
